The Deeper Meaning
by Ledgerwood
Summary: A post series, post-apocalyptic one-shot. There's not much of world left to fight for, but our watcher and slayer will go out as they were destined to.


Author's Note: Had to publish something before Christmas and "Put a Ring On It" has been giving me some trouble. Guess that's what happens when you write the beginning and the end first- you get stuck in the middle! :-{

**I wrote this sitting in a leaky room listening to the pounding rain. Just a little something to counteract some of the holiday cheer going around. All that aside, Merry Christmas, everyone.**

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Drip...

Drip...

Drip...

A watery runoff of diluted blood trailed from a pooling at Buffy's underarm, down and around the curve of her delicate wrist, and fell from the bend in her pinky to the wet wash of concrete below. Fighting the urge to lean against the doorway which framed her dark and dampened form, she stood with all the stillness she could muster and listened against the steady slapping rain for human sounds of breathing from within. The storage shed was a seemingly deep well of black, despite it's narrow dimensions, with only a small and obstructed shaft of illumination offered by the moonlight behind her. Her eyes made their adjustments, both natural and super, and settled on a staggered stack of boxes near the far corner (and the deeper shades of darkness that occupied the space between them and the wall). She belabordly inched further toward the inside of the shelter and the shuffling of her feet was loud to her strained ears.

A crossbow lifted in the darkness at the change in her silhouette and she halted, sensing more than seeing.

"Giles...?"

There was no movement.

Her right arm, which was wrapped tightly around her midsection, jerked involuntarily and she winced as more blood seeped in between her fingers and onto the floor.

Drip drip drip.

She stumbled slightly further.

Slowly, and with agile calculation, a broad shouldered form rose from it's place of hiding, keeping the weapon level to it's eyes and her chest.

"Giles..." She exhaled heavily, giving in to hope and relief as her body gave way to exhaustion. She fell swiftly and light, only to be scooped up by dry arms and lowered deftly to the ground.

"Good Lord..." He muttered, aghast, before hurriedly assessing her breaks and lacerations.

"There were... fifteen, this time. I think." She panted. "Maybe fourteen. Three female, the rest..."

"Shhhh Shh Shh.." He quieted her, gently removing the wet, sticky jean jacket and propping it under her head for support. "Be still." He quietly commanded. "It's alright."

She closed her eyes, forcing shallow breaths against a cracked ribcage, as he had taught her to do so long ago- It seemed a lifetime. Somewhere in the corners of her consciousness she heard the scraping of a tin med kit along dusty cement and the tearing open of paper sealed gauze. At the fast "Zzourp" sound of tape off the roll, Buffy allowed herself another brief exhale of relief. He was here. He would fix her. It was supposed to be like this.

She lay there drifting in and out while he worked, grateful that it was all she could do for the time being and taking some comfort in the familiarity with which he attended to here wounds. Any faith Giles placed in her ability as slayer, she returned with full confidence in his own birthright. Every now and again her eyes would drift open to steel a glance at his weathered face. She thought she saw less fear there than before (though, at the moment, she had given him more than enough to fear for). He looked mechanical in his motion and yet as human as he ever was. And old. Much older than the day they beat the biggest of bads and stared over a valley of victorious desolation. Much older than when he summoned the spirit of ancient kings and wielded the power of a dragon on the streets of LA. And much older than before the city fell to beasts and the sun went down for the last time.

Beasts. Vampires. In the end, perhaps it was the demon's humanity which made her race so venerable to them. Buffy suddenly felt chuckle swell within her and fade quickly at the sharpness of pain- Here she was analyzing the poetic irony of her own destruction in the wake of a deadly battle. Giles would be so proud. And then another thought struck her altogether, momentarily breaking through her haze of half-consciousness.

"How..." She swallowed a thick mouthful of blood and caught his gaze. "How did you know?"

His hands stilled and he seemed to study her face for a moment in the darkness before returning his eyes to the task at hand.

"Mystical forcefeild." He replied. "I ,essentially, enchanted the enclosure to require invitation." He looked to her briefly for some recognition and clarified, "You crossed the threshold of your own will."

It wasn't what she might have wanted to him to say. He hadn't slipped his fingers through her's and told her he would have known her anywhere- That they were two halves of a whole, destined to self destruct should the other fall behind. No, Giles would save his words of love and devotion for the only truly dire moments left them- which served to satisfy at least one of her uncertainties; he didn't believe that she would die tonight. Outside, the thunder let out a heavy rumble, accompanied by a quick flash of light and a finally lucid realization of the larger implications of what this restored spell could mean for them.

"Giles..." "She whispered again after a few moments.

"Hmm?" He'd returned his remaining supplies to the tin box and did his best to wipe the blood from his hands, having dressed her wounds as well as he could.

"Thank you." She smiled at him a little. She wanted it to mean everything; to express the magnitude of her appreciation and wonder, grateful that, even through all the battles that had become her only constant- every loss and selfless act forced upon her and throughout the great monumental tragedy that had become their lives- she had never been alone.

He used his cleanest hand to wipe a stray hair from her brow and cup her cheek, returning her smile in acknowledgment of both the bandages and her deeper meaning.

"Always," He replied, though neither really wished that to be so.

"Merry Christmas," She panted, "Watcher mine."

"Merry Christmas, Buffy" He replied.

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**And a happy New Year!- M. Ledgerwood.**


End file.
